27

David Bowie passed away today. The entirety of my social media feeds have been filled with tributes to him. An endless stream of tweets have linked to essays, quoted lyrics, or simply shared a favorite song; the majority of what my friends have listened to on Spotify today has been something from every era of Bowie's 40+ year career; Facebook friends from different social circles that have never met each other (and probably never will) are posting the same links to music videos or articles about the Thin White Duke. The anecdotes that have been shared aren't morsels, but a nourishing feast to honor the legacy of David Bowie.

I am no different. A friend texted the news this morning. I woke up, read some responses online, then wrote my own tribute. David Bowie released 27 studio albums*. I wrote a short story, inspired by the album covers of these records. Each record gets one line. If you want to follow along, I recommend scrolling through NME's chronological list of albums with proper credit given to the  photographers, fashion designers, and other artists that contributed to the myriad of mystique personas that Bowie donned.

*Includes two albums with Tin Machine. Does not include soundtracks, live albums, compilations, etc.

☆☆☆

"27"

Photo by Jimmy King

You announced yourself to the world with slight shadow cast and a penetrating gaze. And while the shadow stayed and your stare intensified, those snaggle-teeth and ominous blue dots signaled supernatural aspirations. But your magic lay in the fact that as soon as we thought we begun to understand you, that was when we realized how little we knew at all; a Fish's dress scattered the house of cards.

What was it like to see a tormented world through panes of green and blue? Resurrected on a rainy night, called to a glowing beacon streetlight, the prophets Burgess and Burroughs were on maximum display. But every state of being had an expiration date and lightning struck 27 times.

Some people will disparage you and your masks, but I say show us every layer. Show us the fire-haired beast, the golden leader within you. Reveal your checkered soul, your ringed ID; scratch me behind the ears and let the smoke linger. Because if anyone else broke through this wall, they would turn back out of fear. But that red-pepper gaze only ever moves forward: what are you looking at that the rest of us can't see?

I know I'm not the only one who's tried to emulate you. But we don't dare risk a broken nose or beat up bones and a tiled place to rest our stuffed-up heads. We don't confront our illusions, our shadows, because such confrontation can only exist when one is willing to perpetually remove the masks that separate ourselves from our Selves. You were the one always willing to put up a fight. Your burning blue evaporates these falling flowers.

A phony ladder leads to a cloud of clouds but the waves crashing outside the open window are more enticing. Excess = abandoned. But these statues, dominant, commanding, were meant to crumble, were meant to conceal...

You.

How do you see yourself from the outside? I feared for a minute you'd turned your back on us forever. But you were the only one who could save yourself. Swing that gaze upwards and you will find no being on a higher peak. Take one last look at us, even if with false eyes. This is your final transition: no longer do you try to convince us of that glamorous facade.

Today, a small black star emanates more light than any sun could dream of doing.